


A Family Can Be

by loversarcana



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Author/Professor Varric, Background F!hawkebela, Cole gets two dads and they do NOT get along, Enemies to Friends, F/F, F/M, Family Dynamics, Foster Kid Cole, Gen, Mentioned Varric/Bianca, Past Child Abuse, background solavellan, professor solas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 17:53:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11423100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loversarcana/pseuds/loversarcana
Summary: MODERN AU - Two miserable men who've given up on a family decide it's time to try.Varric and Solas both decide that eccentric 13 year old Cole is the one they want to adopt - and begrudgingly decide to move in together for his sake.(Enemies to Friends Varric/Solas, background Solavellan + Varric/Bianca)





	A Family Can Be

**Author's Note:**

> This absolutely bizarre plot would NOT leave me alone, so I wanted to toss it out there and see what people think!
> 
> I love Varric and Solas's relationship with Cole and I wanted to explore that in a different sort of setting. Each chapter will feature pieces from their 3 perspectives.
> 
> and yes, the title is absolutely a meme. A family can be a jaded dwarf, a grumpy elf, and a strange young man.

_Varric_

Most writers reach a point where they sit there, stare at the page, and the words don’t come. That’s expected, right? Even the most brilliant mind gets tired of sitting on their ass all day, putting their vision on the page, getting it to actually sound good. You can’t keep it up forever. You try as long as you can, then end up taking a break, and that eventually turns into giving up for the day. Then you cap it off with a can of beer or four.

Yeah, most writers reach that point every once in a while. But it’s no way to live.

Bianca called again earlier. I swore I wasn’t taking her calls anymore but, shit, since when have I ever listened to my own advice? Conversation was short though. Loud, but short. Her husband found out we were still in contact, and, well, that’s that. Probably won’t hear from her for a while. Maybe.

I walk out into the hallway that connects my tiny kitchen to my tiny study, passing the bedroom door off to one side, bathroom to the other. Not much, but it’s enough for me - I prefer to have extra spending money for my overflowing social calendar. Okay, that’s only partly true.

My laptop and cell phone were conveniently left in the study, but of course, that does nothing to alleviate my agitation. My hands shake, forcing me to clench them to keep them steady. If I keep telling myself talking to her didn’t affect me, then it didn’t. Just keep that smile on, Tethras. It’s what you’re best at.

I feel like I need a beer. But I’m not my brother, so I’m not going to drink one. Alcohol, for normal people, is a reward - not a band-aid. I can’t let it come to that. No, I can find something nicer to soothe my stress. Healthier. I’ll be the bigger person here. I can move on without hurting myself.

The couch looks tempting, though it’s more like a love seat, which sours my mood even further.

I walk back into my study, picking up my phone. I swipe through and delete my history, then punch in my best friend’s number by heart. Hawke will know what I should do. 

One ring and she answers. I can’t help but smile a bit at that, the one person who’s always made me a priority. I can always count on her.

“Hey, Varric!” Her voice is breathless, some sort of guitar music is blaring in the background. “Sorry, but I’m at a concert with Bela tonight, we both managed to get work off tomorrow. I’ll call you when I get home?”

I laugh at that. She tried.

“Champion, you know that’s not true. Bela’s probably already got you slam hammered, the first thing you’re gonna need when you get home tonight is a tall glass of water and some sleep. Don’t worry about me.”

“Will do! Goodnight, my favorite dwarf!” I hear a sloppy kissing noise, and snort at that. She hangs up, and it’s quiet again. I turn on some music, something soft, but not writing music. Edgier lyrics, angrier, but not too loud.

I sigh and try to think about tomorrow. Maybe I’ll sign up to teach another class this quarter at the university. I took the last two off so I could focus on my new novel, but maybe a bit of distraction might be better for me right now. Isolation is getting to me, and the students can be a pretty damn compelling reason to get out of bed in the morning. Fresh minds, ready for me to mold them. And by helping them harness the magic of creative writing, I can help them process their problems and finally get that story out that’s been kicking around inside them the whole time.

Everyone has a story.

But what’s my story? Dwarf with lots of friends dies alone. Abandoned by his family, he leaves nothing behind except too damn many words.

I pull up social media, because that’s always helpful at times like these. Distract yourself from your own life by comparing yourself to others, yes, that’ll do.

I’m greeted with a welcoming blurry picture of Marian Hawke, grinning with Isabela outside the concert venue. Merrill’s left a comment telling them to be careful, Anders is complaining that he wasn’t invited as usual. I smile. Better keep scrolling before I get jealous. Don’t want to sink to Anders’s level.

Fenris got a new job at the detective agency near Aveline, he’s been training all day today. I bet he’s thrilled. He always bothered Aveline about her job - he’s got a bit of a righteous complex, even if he won’t admit it.

I click on Aveline’s profile, curious. We haven’t caught up in a while. She’s been busy at her office, and me at mine.

Apparently, it’s her and Donnic’s 6th anniversary together. But instead of going out, they’re taking care of their new daughter. They haven’t posted many pictures of her online, but it’s a special occasion. She’s got her mother’s fiery hair and furrowed brow already. She’s so young. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that expression on Aveline’s face, looking at that tiny human like the sun shines out her ass.

I don’t feel the tear winding down my face until it drips off my chin. Me, a father? Like I’d ever be father material. Like I’d ever find a woman I loved ever again, let alone one who’s want to start a family with me. Like I deserved that kind of happiness.

But I can’t stop my mind from running away with me, novelist sensibilities painting me detailed pictures. Maybe a daughter, picking up the pen as early as I did. Maybe a son, he’d be the star of the school musical or the backbone of the school sports team. An unknown child and I going to a park. Now I’m teaching them to read, now I’m helping them cross the street, now I’m...

Actually crying. Damn, it’s been a while since _that’s_ happened.

Incredible friends, a successful career. That’s more than most people can say. Can’t possibly ask for more. I’m just a shitty, weak middle aged man, and that’s all there is too it. This fantasy has no purpose, no place in my life.

That doesn’t stop me from pulling up another tab on the screen, searching for local adoption agencies. I scroll through the requirements, mentally ticking them off. My heart beats fast, too fast. What am I doing? This is insane. 

But I’m tired of tiptoing around my future for her. Bianca’s never going to be mine, truly, and I know that. Stability is out of the question. But this - I want to make this decision for me.

Maybe it’s what I’ve been missing. 

* * *

 

_Solas_

Teaching is easy, as a concept. I have intimate knowledge of my subjects, and I can relay that accurately to my students. I’ve received numerous rewards from my institution, and I’m told repeatedly that the work I’ve done for the field of ancient elvhen history is admirable. The history of the People is rich with meaningful events, full of conflict, and is absolutely relevant to today’s world.

If I’m honest with myself, I enjoy being the best at what I do.

The difficult part comes from the students who are unable to understand my explanations. I realize my lectures aren’t as stimulating as others may be – my job is to give them the information as clearly as possible and trust that they can retain it. As the years have passed, however, I find myself tiring of their lackluster attempts. Very few students show true interest, and it is disheartening. But, at this point, I must continue teaching so that I can make a living doing what I love best – archiving and research.

Today’s class is going quite poorly. For the graduate level, there are too many students distracted, on their phones, drifting. I see it in their glazed eyes. A few are at rapt attention, but even those feel strained to a breaking point when I make eye contact. Today’s subject is admittedly one of the less engaging sections of ancient elvhen, however the specificities of herbs used in the ancient rituals are extremely important for later events. Surely they will recognize this in time.

“Hopefully you all have gleaned something from this,” I tell them, and I watch their faces light up as they begin packing their bags. I turn around, hands clasped behind my back. Ungrateful. They don’t appreciate the opportunity they’ve been given. I can see their parent’s hard earning money trickling down the drain.

“The assignment will be due on Thursday. Please make sure you’ve done the entirety of the reading, as we will be having an in-depth class discussion on it.”

Before I’m finished speaking, most of the class is gone. But no matter, if they cannot keep up with the class, so be it. No doubt I will have a few frantic emails sent late tonight. As much as I hate when students aren’t paying attention, I can at least respect effort taken to rectify past mistakes. As the years go on, though, it has become increasingly hard to be forgiving.

One of the students approaches my desk. She’s willowy, pixie cut brown hair feathering across her pointed ears. _Piercing_ green eyes. Incidentally, she has been absent from most of the classes this semester. I likely would have noticed someone so striking before today. I narrow my eyes, so she knows I am aware of her transgression.

“What can I assist you with, Miss...?” I feign ignorance at her name, to prove my point. 

“Lavellan, sir, Elora Lavellan,” she says. Her voice is musical, soft, lovely. I brace myself.

“Miss Lavellan. I notice you’ve been absent from my class,” I state, and she winces. Good, she’s aware.

“Sorry, Professor Solas. I wish I had a better reason, but honestly, I’ve been feeling awful this semester and have been prioritizing my mental health. Other classes had to take precedence over this one. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s the truth.”

My face reddens at this. To completely disregard a class with such important information, put it at the lowest on your priority list, and then admit that openly? The brazen nerve!

She notices my reaction, bites her lip. It’s endearing, but not enough to offset my anger. Perhaps she’s doing this specifically to soften my response. I will not falter. 

“I was wondering if I could take on additional work for extra credit to make up for the days I missed,” She continues, looking down. “I know it’s a long shot, but I’m feeling much better now and am ready to prove it. This history program is incredibly important to me and my family, and I’d hate to lose my spot because of one class.”

I gather myself. “Miss Lavellan, it states plainly in the syllabus that missing a certain amount of days merits an immediate failure in the class. While your story is compelling, asking me to come up with a new assignment to make up for all the material you’ve missed is, frankly, selfish and naïve.” 

Her face falls at my words, then twists, her lips drawing to a tight line. Her shoulders curl up, like she’s preparing to pounce. I feel a jolt of adrenaline, taken aback by her visceral reaction, but continue.

“Unfortunately, you will need to consider other options –“

“I guess my friends were right about you, Professor _._ You’re just a bitter old man who only cares about his subject. You don’t give a shit about anyone except yourself,” she snarls, and she _spits_ onto my desk, a fire in her eyes like I’ve never seen before.

“I’ll find a way to get around this class. There are other people at this university who care. As for you, professor Solas? I hope you enjoy your miserable life, alone. To think, I actually admired your work. Hilarious,” She snaps, as she slaps her bag over her back and leaves in a flurry of rage.

She leaves, and the heat leaves with her. It’s too cold, now. I stare at my hands.

“My miserable life, alone.” I can only whisper, her words stinging like an invisible handprint against my face.

My legs are weak. I collapse into my desk chair, try to think. All I can see is her face, blinding, beautiful unlike anything I’ve ever seen, burning with nothing but hatred and contempt for me. No one has spoken to me like that. I feel myself oscillating between contempt and despair toward her actions. Despair pulls at me as it hasn’t in years. She’s wrong, she has to be wrong.

I suppose she knew one thing: I’ve never lived for anyone except myself. She saw to the core of me, somehow, a mere _student_. I’ve never truly loved a woman, never had a family, never even knew my own.

I’ve always been alone, and I prefer it that way. My parents abandoned me as a child, and I accepted that. There was no point in pining after parents who threw away their child as if I was nothing but a waste of space.

The only thing that helped me in the orphanage was looking out for myself, bettering myself so I could rise above it. I’ve done that, I’ve made a life for myself. I’m successful, and independent. That was all I wanted, for so many years.

What if there’s a child out there, right now, who needs me as much as I needed someone?

What if I can fix this dreadful error? 

What if it’s not too late for me?

* * *

 

_Cole_

I forget how long I’ve been here. Before, I only remember blackness, pain, hunger. I was hurting, but now I don’t remember. Forgetting makes the pain hurt less, but sometimes I wonder what it was that hurt me so badly.

The past week has been different. Most people forget me, don’t even realize I’m here. They talk to me and flit away, like moths, drawn to a brighter light, and then another child is chosen. They leave and I stay, and that’s how it always is. “Thirteen is too old,” “he’s too shy,” “he’s awkward,” they say. It’s okay. It’s not their fault.

But a man came to visit _me_ yesterday. He was stout, short, a dwarf. “A writer by trade, occasionally university professor,” he’d said. He smiled and joked around a lot during the visit, but I could tell that he was hurting. I think I helped him, though. The more time we spent together, the brighter his smile became. His stories made me happy, and he made me feel confident. Like I was worth someone’s time.

I remember him because he remembered me. He didn’t leave to talk to another one, he stayed almost the whole day.

Today, another man is here to see me. Nobody’s looked twice at me before, and here he is, the second in the same week. He’s bald, with sad blue eyes and pointed ears. An elf. Some of the orphanage workers are elves, but he’s taller than them, broader. The employees seem a little scared of him, but he’s not scary to me at all. 

I think he wants to help me, but I can tell he needs help too.

“Cole, I picked up a coloring book for you, I read that you enjoy drawing,” He’s speaking fast, nervous, but that’s silly, what reason should he have to be nervous around me?

“Thank you, sir, I do,” I tell him, and he beams at me.

“Would you like to sit down? I can get us some markers. We can fill out the pages together.”

And we do that, and it feels nice. He talks to me about the strange dreams he has, and asks me about mine. I tell him about the spirits and places I see when I sleep, and he comes alive.

I wonder if either of them will actually remember me. I hope they do.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> if you wanna chat, follow me on [tumblr :)](http://mechagecko.tumblr.com)


End file.
